


the way she looks

by shmabs



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Bruises, Cunnilingus, F/F, Suit Kink, helplessly butch mike, mike's thighs, no name changes bc why tf not, unaware femme tom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 02:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5030113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shmabs/pseuds/shmabs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the general hustle and bustle of being a hockey player - games, interviews, training, practice, and everything else that comes with it - Tom doesn’t think she can be blamed for forgetting about the whole thing with Latts and Holts. She’s a busy woman and can only be expected to remember so many things, right?</p><p>So it comes not just as a surprise but a shock when Tom knocks on Latts’ doors before yet another home game against the Penguins and the person that comes out is - well, the only word Tom can think of is dapper, which is a stupid word that shouldn’t come to mind when she looks at Latts. And yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the way she looks

**Author's Note:**

> this is for mallory, who loves ladies and the caps and suits and deserves a million fics about helplessly butch hockey players but has to settle for just this one. thanks for being in my life and loving jord as much as he deserves and, even though you don't like sidney crosby, i'm so glad that hockey brought us together
> 
> now that that's done with i wanna give a big shoutout to god for making me so fucking gay and to elysa for reading over this fic and making sure it was something mal would like. you are truly a gem
> 
> the title is from a brazilian movie called "Hoje Eu Quero Voltar Sozinho" or "The Way He Looks" which is absolutely gorgeous and available to watch on netflix
> 
> just a heads up, there's a lot of talk about injuries in this fic (not serious, career-ending ones, more like bruises and black eyes and split lips) and both characters enjoy giving/receiving pain in small doses. if you need some more clarification on anything feel free to message me and i'm happy to be more specific

Tom has lived with Latts for almost two full years, has gotten all the way to the playoffs and then got knocked out of them with her, so she can say with some degree of confidence that there are exactly three things Latts hates about game days: being forced to sit in the press box when she’s injured or scratched, the possibility of losing, and the _dresses_.

 

“Willy, c’mon. I look like a dyke in a dress.” Latts picks at a thread tickling her collarbone and Tom is torn between swatting her hand away and brushing her lips against the thin skin there. She opts for the first one, because this is actually a pretty nice dress and Latts needs to not ruin it the first time she wears it.

 

“Technically, you _are_ a dyke in a dress,” Tom says, ignoring the irritated huff that Latts lets out and making sure that her hair looks good enough for the scrutiny of the media. There are a few cowlicks that she could probably tame with enough time and hair stuff, but they have to leave in the next fifteen minutes or else Ovi will chirp them about not having a clock in their apartment (it’s not their fault that they moved into an unfurnished apartment and didn’t think to buy a clock, ok, it’s not like they don’t have a microwave or a TV or, y’know, _phones_ that do that job for them), so Tom just licks the palm of her hand and flattens down the stubborn hairs as best she can.

 

“I don’t see why I can’t just wear jeans or something instead of these stupid dresses.”

 

“C’mon Latts, you know they want us to look nice when we go to games,” Tom says absently, still attempting to tame a rogue curl. “Maybe you could talk to Holts or something and he could hook you up with a suit if you don’t wanna wear these _very nice_ dresses that I helped you pick out.”

 

She glances away from the mirror in time to see Latts shrug noncommittally. It looks like she’s barely listening to Tom, complaining just for the sake of complaining, which is, in Tom’s opinion, one of Latts’ worst qualities. She’s leaning against the kitchen counter messing around on her phone, probably scrolling through twitter or instagram or looking at pictures of her brother’s dogs. Her hair is cropped short and her shoulders are broad and lightly freckled, the thin straps of the dress she’s wearing displaying them nicely. Tom wants to run her fingers over the little red indents that the straps are leaving behind, maybe press her nails into Latts’ pale skin until Tom makes some marks of her own, little crescent moons of red and deep purple fingerprints in the meat of Latt’s neck, the wings of her shoulders, the dip of her spine.

 

For all that Latts is stronger than her in many ways (yes, they do have weekly arm wrestling competitions, no, Tom doesn’t want to talk about it) Latts bruises like an overly ripe peach. It wouldn’t be so bad really if she would just wear regular clothes like regular people instead of lazing around in a sports bra and some biking shorts, livid purple marks running down her side and under the waistband of her shorts from where she was checked hard into the boards.

 

It’s worse (or better, depending on how you look at it) when she fights, which is often. Sometimes Latts will have a black eye that lingers for weeks, just a shadow of burst blood vessels in the skin at the corner of her eye, but Tom knows it’s still there, still just a bit more sensitive than the rest of Latts’ face.

 

Once when they got back from a game and Latts took her shirt off Tom could already see the beginnings of a bruise in the shape of a hand forming where Latt’s neck and shoulder meet. Apparently the guy she fought, some huge fuck that went down like the Titanic when Latts landed a square punch to his jaw, had gripped her so hard that he left a bruise, five points of deep purple where his fingers dug in while a softer, more lilac color filled out where the rest of his hand had been.

 

Thankfully for Tom’s remaining sanity, tonight most of Latt’s bruises are hidden under the smooth silky fabric of her dress. No fingerprints on her shoulders, no yellow tinge to her jaw, no fresh scrapes on her knuckles. That’ll likely change during the game tonight since they’re playing the fucking Penguins and she and Latts always get roughed up until they agree to a fight.

 

Personally, Tom thinks Latts looks fucking amazing in whatever she wears, but she has to admit that the slumped shoulders and uncomfortable grimace that always come with whatever dress Latts is wearing that night aren’t particularly attractive. Tom thinks that Latts would look just fine (better than just fine, actually) if Latts would stop moping and act like she was wearing any other outfit. But no matter how many times she tries to get Latts to “relax, and stop looking like you’ve got a stick up your ass,” it never works.

 

Well, whatever. There’s nothing she can do about it now, and if they don’t leave soon they really are going to be late.

 

Tom cracks her knuckles and takes one last look around, making sure she’s got a couple extra hair ties since she always loses hers during fights.

 

“Alright Mikey, let’s go kick some Penguin ass.”

 

Latts looks up from her phone and grins at Tom, all teeth. She’s willing to bet they’ll both come back with bruises tonight.

 

~

 

Well.

 

She’s certainly not wrong.

 

~

 

She and Latts end up with a combined total of twenty six penalty minutes for the game, including two fights each (both of which were 100% deserved in her opinion) and a roughing call on Tom for shoving her glove into Malkin’s face (also maybe for pushing him around a bit after he tried to fight Latts, but mostly the first one).

 

They win, which is always nice, with Nicky sliding a beautiful pass to Ovi for the game-winner.

 

It’s a Saturday game and Trotz, bless his tiny self, decides to call off their optional skate for the next day because “I don’t want to deal with twenty hungover idiots in the morning,” which is greeted with some obnoxious cheering (mostly from Tom and Latts) and scattered applause.

 

“We’re going to nice club,” Ovi announces, towel wrapped around his waist and ridiculous gaudy chain resting squarely between his pecs. “That means everyone have to dress nice - even you Latts.”

 

“What,” splutters Latts, who Tom notices has already changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt instead of putting her dress back on. If Tom’s a little disappointed that Latts’ big shoulders are covered up now, well, you’d have to have her at gunpoint to get her to admit it.

 

“No t-shirts,” Ovi says.

 

“C’mooooon,” Latts wheedles shamelessly, opening her eyes wide and attempting to look innocent. At least, that’s what Tom assumes she’s trying to do. The new shiner and split lip that Latts is sporting kind of ruins whatever effect she’s trying for. Unless she’s going for the “just had rough sex and is definitely down for another round” look, in which case Tom can’t help but notice that she absolutely nailed it.

 

Tom is so fucked.

 

~

 

The bar they end up at is, in fact, very nice, and should probably be classified as some kind of cocktail lounge or some other fancy shit that Tom is entirely too uncultured for. Still, despite feeling out of place among the very expensive-looking drinks and more expensive-looking people, Tom has a good time. Ovi is buying everyone’s shit and laughing goofily at something that Holts said, TJ actually came out and looks like he’s having fun instead of gazing sadly at his phone, and even Backy seems like he’s letting loose, sipping on his drink (probably a vodka cranberry or something equally lowkey and classy) and smiling softly at everyone.

 

Tom lets herself get lost for a bit in the crush of the dance floor, letting the few beers she’s had and that one, probably ill advised, shot she took with Burkie and Latts carry away the soreness and exhaustion waiting behind the adrenaline and natural high of victory. When she extricates herself from the girl she’d been grinding on (a very pretty redhead, curvy and shorter than her by almost a foot, thighs thick enough that Tom could easily imagine herself setting up camp between them for a _very_ long time) she immediately makes her way over to where Ovi and Backy have settled into a booth, a bottle of wine between them. Tom wants to call them out on being so old and boring but she also doesn’t want to damage her chances of getting a pass at the wine, so she shuts her mouth and simply hip checks Backy further into the booth.

 

“What’s a lady gotta do to get some wine around her?” she slurs, maybe more drunk than she realized until she sat down and the wine bottle started moving.

 

Ovi laughs, loud and indulgent, and pours her a little less than a fourth of a glass. She looks at him expectantly, but he laughs again and puts the cork back in decisively.

 

“Latts wouldn’t let you cut me off,” she mutters uncharitably, and Backy snorts at her.

 

“Well, your girl’s over talking to Holts right now so I don’t think she can help.”

 

“She’s not _my_ anything,” she tries to tell Backy adamantly, but mostly ends up listing against his shoulder and mumbling the words unconvincingly into the fabric of his dress shirt, suddenly too tired to even finish the wine.

 

“Whatever you say,” Backy says, because he’s a good bro and doesn’t call Tom on her shit. “Also we’re calling you both a cab. Go home and get some sleep.”

 

Tom takes it back. Backy’s not that good of a bro.

 

~

 

“What were you talking to Holts about?” she asks when they get home, toeing off her heels and kicking them into what was at one point a storage closet for cleaning supplies but is now officially the shoe closet.

 

“Um, just what you mentioned earlier,” Latts says, unzipping her dress and throwing it unceremoniously in the direction of the laundry room.

 

“Mmm,” Tom says, feeling the exhaustion of the game and the fights and the fancy fucking cocktail lounge so far down in her bones that she’s surprised she can still walk. “That’s nice.”

 

“Yeah. I’m, uh, I’m pretty excited about it.”

 

Tom nods sleepily and smiles at Mike, then promptly passes out face first on her bed, dress half off and bobby pins still stuck in her hair.

 

~

 

In the general hustle and bustle of being a hockey player - games, interviews, training, practice, and everything else that comes with it - Tom doesn’t think she can be blamed for forgetting about the whole thing with Latts and Holts. She’s a busy woman and can only be expected to remember so many things, right?

 

So it comes not just as a surprise but a shock when Tom knocks on Latts’ doors before yet another home game against the Penguins and the person that comes out is - well, the only word Tom can think of is _dapper_ , which is a stupid word that shouldn’t come to mind when she looks at Latts. And yet.

 

“What,” Tom breathes out. Latts is wearing a suit. And not just the generic, kind of shitty ones that Burkie and Ovi and most of the guys wear on game days. This suit looks _nice_ , like it was made from expensive fabric and fitted for Latts’ body. The pants she’s wearing are dark grey and have the slightest hint of a plaid pattern on the fabric stretched tight over her thick thighs. Tom swallows. Despite the multiple layers separating Tom’s eyes and Latts’ shoulders, she can see the bulk of them, the definition that the jacket and red waistcoat (a fucking _red waistcoat_ ) and light blue button up do absolutely nothing to conceal. When Tom looks closely she can see that Latts’ tie has little hockey pucks on it. She kind of wants to strangle herself with it.

 

“So,” Latts says, breaking Tom out of her stupor. She looks nervous, neck blotchy and red, before blurting, “Do you like it?” all in a rush, words running together so it sounds more like “Doyoulikeit?”

 

“Yes,” Tom says after a too-long pause.

 

Latts looks utterly unconvinced. “Ok, well, if you think I look bad then you can just say. It’s fine.”

 

After taking one look at Latts’ face Tom can tell that no, actually, it wouldn’t be fine to tell Latts that she looks bad right now because 1) Latts looks as fragile as Tom’s ever seen her and 2) it would be a huge fucking lie.

 

“No, seriously, Mikey you look- fuck, you look really good.” Tom swallows, hard, and shoves her hands into the pockets of her dress so she doesn’t do something stupid like reach out and stroke Mike’s thighs. The fabric looks really soft.

 

“Really?” Mike asks, like she doesn’t realize Tom is getting wet just looking at her and, shit, Tom knows this is a bad idea but she also knows that she’ll do anything to get that desperate, unsure look off of Mike’s face, so she squares her shoulders and goes for it.

 

“Mikey. Don’t freak out, but I’m gonna kiss you now. And not just because you look so goddamn hot in that suit - I mean, a little bit because of that, but not completely. Just- tell me if you wanna stop.”

 

Mike looks like she won’t be moving any time soon, so Tom steps into her space and skims her hand along Mike’s side, following the lines of her jacket until her palm rests comfortably in the small of Mike’s back. Tom nudges her forward just a bit, until all Tom has to do is lean down a few inches and press her lips against Mike’s. Her lips are wet and open and what Tom intended to be a relatively chaste first kiss ends with her tongue in Mike’s mouth, hand slipping down until she feels Mike’s ass firm under her palm. Mike moans when Tom bites down on her bottom lip and, fuck, she needs to make sure Mike’s actually okay with this.

 

“Is this,” she starts, but doesn’t finish, because Mike is surging up against her, pressing her solid bulk all along Tom’s front until she feels her back hit the wall. As much as Tom loves the suit (and she really, _really_ loves the suit) Tom wishes that she could reach more of Latts’ skin, flushed and hot, covered in still-sensitive bruises that Tom could push her fingers into, nice and gentle until she isn’t anymore.

 

Tom’s never particularly gotten off on sloppy kissing before but she supposes she’s going to have to rethink that because Mike’s mouth is open and wet, breathing harshly and running her spit-slick lips down to Tom’s throat and Tom can feel herself getting wetter just from this, just from Mike’s mouth on her. Mike opens her mouth around Tom’s collarbone and presses her teeth in hard enough to make Tom choke out a breathy _fuck_.

 

Mike pulls back at that, eyes hooded, lips red and wet. “We’re gonna be late if we don’t leave soon,” she says, voice rough.

 

“I don’t give a shit,” Tom says, steering Mike towards the couch and struggling with her belt at the same time. Who says Tom’s bad at multitasking? “I’m gonna eat you out on the couch and then we’re gonna go to the game and I’m gonna thank Holts and maybe give him a bottle of wine or something and then we’re gonna punch some Penguins and win the game and come home and I’m gonna give you like seven more orgasms.”

“So you wanna do this again?” Mike asks, unsure, like she still doesn’t know that Tom’s jerked off to highlight videos of her scoring goals and fucking people up with her fists, or that Tom’s family always asks how Mike’s doing and when she’s gonna come for a visit. Tom takes a step back from where she’d been wrestling with Mike’s pants and looks at her, trying to convey how serious she is about what she’s going to say.

 

“Dude, I’ve wanted to do this” – she gestures to Mike’s kiss-swollen mouth and then down the line of her body to where her pants are unbuttoned – “since we moved in together. If you don’t wanna then obviously that’s cool but like, I would really love to do this again? And maybe hold hands and go on real dates? And tell my family that we’re together? But, I mean. Only if you want to.”

 

“Seriously?” Mike asks, hopeful, and Tom leans in, brushes her mouth over Mike’s and tries to convey how very serious she is about this.

 

“Yes,” Tom says simply.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“ _Fuck_ yeah.”

 

“Okay,” Mike exhales, and wiggles her hips until her suit pants and underwear are bunched around her calves.

 

“Put it in my face,” Tom sings delightedly, dropping to her knees and grinning up from between Mike’s spread thighs.

 

“Ugh, that was horrib- ohhh,” Mike huffs, because Tom has taken it upon herself to bury her face in Mike’s pussy.

 

Tom loves many things in life – scoring goals, having long hair, and playing with dogs, among others – but eating Mike out quickly climbs to the top of the list.

 

Her thighs are tense, unable to spread as far as Tom’s sure she wants them to because of the fabric still tangled around her legs. Tom’s hands are stroking them unconsciously, feeling the slight rasp of stubble against her fingertips. The next time they do this, and she feels a thrill run through her at the thought of _next time_ , Tom’s going to cover the wide expanse of Mike’s thighs with hickeys, will take the soft warm skin into her mouth until Mike is begging her to go up _just a little further, fuck Tommy, put your mouth on me._ Even without the hickeys, Mike’s thighs will display her marks tomorrow, her fingers pressing in so tight that she can almost feel the blood rushing to the surface, the little fingerprint bruises forming as she licks into Mike’s cunt, holding her down on the couch just enough that she doesn’t quite have the leverage to ride Tom’s face like she knows they both want. They can do that another time.

 

She takes her hand off Mike’s thigh and slips it between their bodies, flicking her thumb over Mike’s clit and grinning when her hips try and buck off the couch. She traces the outline of Mike’s opening gently, first with her tongue and then with her fingers, rubbing the calluses on each fingertip against the sensitive skin.

 

“Tom, fucking christ, _get in me_ ,” Tom hears, slightly muffled and, well, Tom’s not about to say no. Her finger slides in easy, like Mike’s body is pulling her in, desperate for it. From what Tom can tell, Mike certainly sounds desperate, gasping for breath and making choked off little noises every time Tom’s finger strokes in. On the next pass she pushes two fingers into Mike, more resistance this time but just barely, and now Mike is clenching around her fingers, thighs straining, both hands buried in Tom’s hair (which, she thinks offhandedly, she’s going to have to fix before they leave for the game).

 

She pulls back and grins up at Mike, who looks just as blissed out as she sounded. Fuck, this was a great idea. Probably one of her best.

 

“Babe,” she says, and waits until Mike’s eyes have focused on her. It takes longer than it probably would if Tom’s fingers weren’t still working inside her, but Tom doesn’t mind waiting. “I’m gonna go ahead and get you off, ok? Try not to pull my hair too much.”

 

Mike nods, starts to respond, and then promptly goes slack against the couch, mouth opening on a quiet, involuntary moan. Tom grins, crooks her fingers again and then dives back in. Mike’s clit is swollen and impossible to ignore so Tom doesn’t, pressing her thumb against it roughly and then soothing it with her tongue. It seems as if Mike especially likes the feeling of Tom’s tongue against her clit, if her half-shouted words are anything to go by, so Tom wraps her lips around it and sucks, circling it with her tongue and pumping her fingers in and out of Mike’s pussy until she feels Mike’s inner walls clench around her hand like a vice.

 

Listening to Mike’s stuttering gasps and loud moans as she comes, Tom can’t help but feel incredibly smug. She’s wet as hell from eating Mike out, of course, but even that edge of unreleased tension can’t take away from her moment of glory. She made Mike come _so hard_. And by god she’s going to do it again.

 

“Holy shit Tom,” Mike eventually says, breathy and a little awed, head still thrown back against the couch. She shifts slightly and then whimpers when Tom slides her fingers out and licks them clean.

 

Mike straightens up and stretches, lifting her arms above her head, shoulders bunched up beneath the fabric of her waistcoat (waistcoat!!) and jacket. She brings her hand down and touches Tom’s face, tracing over her heated, puffy lips. “You look like you just got fucked.”

 

Tom wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and grins.

“Technically, you’re the one that got fucked. But I definitely helped.”

 

After an embarrassing moment where the two of them just grin at each other, Mike clears her throat.

 

“So. I guess that means you liked the suit?”

 

“Mikey,” Tom groans, still on her knees between Mike’s thighs, “I can never look Holts in the eye again.”

 

“What are you talking about? It’s not like I was wearing one of _his_ suits.”

 

“He’s been telling me to ask you out for months. He’s gonna be too smug to deal with once he finds out I broke because he put you in a fucking suit.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> in case anyone starts wondering, the song that tom's singing is cookie by r.kelly and yes it is exactly as fantastic and ridiculous as it sounds
> 
> the suit described here is one inspired by the dapper chicks of new york, who are amazing and definitely worth looking into if you want your world to be rocked
> 
> hmu on tumblr @ hockeyluvinhomo if u liked what u read!


End file.
